


The Girl With Flaxen Hair

by wandering_scavenger



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, F/M, Multi, follows character ages in asoiaf novels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-17 11:22:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9321266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wandering_scavenger/pseuds/wandering_scavenger
Summary: Robb Stark was so well acquainted with Death in his short, war-torn life that he could have called it an old friend. But just when he is on the brink of greeting it with open arms, he comes across a German girl who brings it upon herself to secretly keep him under her protection.She was everything he had sworn to fight for back home. And it is only when he is with her that he wishes the world was not so black and white.





	

_ On the lucerne midst flowers in bloom, _

_ Who sings praises to morning? _

_ It is the girl with golden hair, _

_ The beauty with lips of cherry. _

_ -  _ Leconte de Lisle

* * *

 

Robb Stark was dead.

His legs were the first to give way, unable to cope with the throbbing pain of his wounds that sent spasms along the nerves of his body. It took nearly everything in his might to push forward, half-running and half-stumbling through the forest to keep his distance from the enemies that pursued him. Their voices echoed from behind, harsh and commanding in a way that was exclusive to their native tongue. Though he was accomplished in a few other languages—one of them including that of his enemies—there was no need to translate the words in his head in order to understand the meaning in them.

_Finden sie die letzte!_

_Find the last one_. They bellowed again and again.

_Find him._

_Find him._

_Find him_. 

How fitting it was, that he who first led his squad through enemy lines would be the last to fall. When his superiors learn of his death, they will say that it meant he was the strongest, the most resilient of them all, but it will only be for their lack of knowledge that luck was simply on his side, as were the men that were loyal to him. He had fought—yes—killed a few men in a futile attempt to aid his comrades who had been knocked down, but it circled back to the fact that it did not _matter_. He was the last; he had failed to protect the men he called his brothers, failed to even hold each of them as they breathed their last breath. 

His lungs followed not long after, screaming for him to put an end to his ceaseless running and surrender to the inevitability of his end. The young man stumbled once again, wincing in pain when the hard earth pressed against the flesh wounds that peeked through the tear of his bloodied shirt and trousers. A strangled cough pushed past his mouth, his chest racked with the air that escaped him until he crouched over the ground in defeat. The identity disks that hung from his neck swayed with the cold winds of the night, it’s soft clacking sound was pounding drums to his ears.

_Run and live._ A voice whispered.

As though his body had a will of its own, his palms dug into the soil beneath him, pushing down until he was on his knees and eventually his feet. The foul voices of his enemies were suddenly so distant, and he pondered if it was because they were too far to hear or if his sense of hearing had dulled as well. 

A light danced ahead of him, illuminating in the darkness of the night like a lone candle in the crypts of an abandoned abbey. He winced one last time, trudging forward and gathering his strength to gain speed and run. 

Robb Stark was dead, with nothing but a spectre of what he once was left a prisoner of the bereft land that he sought to help conquer.

 

xxx

 

Seconds, minutes, hours, days could have passed and he would not have known just how long it had been until his eyelids obeyed him when he commanded them to flit open. But it had not been his own thoughts that forced him into a hazy consciousness, but a voice. 

He could have sworn that it was Sansa or Arya who had roused him from his troubled sleep, eager to greet whichever sister sought him out. And then the pain returned, ten times sharper on his side as the dryness of his throat and rasp of his breathing grew heavier. 

_Es ist nicht lustig, Joffrey! Wo ist mein Skizzenbuch?_

Robb squeezed his eyes shut, unable to steady the fear that coursed through his veins upon hearing the voice once again. His head spun, setting his insides churning as though he had drank spoilt milk in the middle of summer. He was behind enemy lines, weak and relatively unarmed save for a knife and empty gun; he was _alone_. 

If he was found? 

He could scarcely keep his eyes open for more than a minute, much less raise an arm to threaten whoever found him. The voice grew nearer with each shaky breath he took, and for the first time since the war began, he felt despair. Strangely enough, he could not help but take notice that it was a kind voice, feminine and gentle in spite of the grating language that it spoke. Perhaps the person to whom it belonged was kind as well, though he could not hope for sympathy from his enemy. This person was bound by the law of their country in the same way he was; there was no crossroad to stand before, and this was purely based on the assumption that the stranger would take pity on him.

Whatever had first compelled him to set foot in Germany had been wiped from his mind, replaced by nausea and thoughts of home. His chest clenched when he tried to take another breath, and he wondered if he would die before the soldiers came for him, Robb Stark: The Man Who Died Choking on His Breath. It would have been a wiser choice to have died before he collapsed in this damned shed. His head collided with the wooden wall behind him when he tried to shift into a more comfortable position, a loud thwacking noise resounded along the confines of his hiding place.

_H-Hallo?_

Robb stifled the whimper at the back of his throat, his hand weakly gripped the stabbing ache on his thigh while the other moved to feel the wetness by his abdomen. Blood continued to soak through his clothes, its stench abruptly sending him back to the night when everything had gone wrong, when he watched his officer cadet get his throat slit and another’s brain blown out.

A gasp escaped from lips that were not his own, urging him to look up and meet the gaze of the person that would be his demise. There was only green, bright like the fields of North Yorkshire in springtime, filled with life in a way that he had not recalled for so long, having been in the company of war-worn men and hollow stares for over four years. It was an angel, with golden waves and a delicate face that was suited to a creature of its kind. 

_I think I am ready to die now._

The angel stared at him in silence, as though it was processing what he had said and committing his words to memory. Everything that surrounded them faded before his eyes, though he had no recollection of where or when he was; all that mattered was his bleeding body and the apparition that stood above him. Then there was only darkness. 

Death greeted him with paradise, and while he was certain that he was undeserving of such a place, he made no protest. He was ten years younger, fifteen again and feigning a stomachache so that he could visit the neighbourhood apothecary and catch a glimpse of pretty Jeyne Westerling as she helped her parents bustle around their little shop to find the medicine he claimed to be in dire need of. Her smile was warm, and he liked to think that particular smile of hers was reserved for him alone. Bran could walk again, he ran along the fields of the countryside with Arya and Rickon while Sansa made crowns for them out of the Asters she had picked in the meadow. The grass was soft beneath his bare feet, the sky so clear a blue that he could have been staring into the Mediterranean sea. Jon and Theon were there too, their faces no longer lined with distress and the indifference that countless battles had engraved into their hearts.

How long had it been since he last saw mischief in Arya’s grey eyes? Since he last played pieces of Claude Debussy to accompany Sansa when she recited poetry for the family? His red-haired sister wrapped her arms around his neck, reminding him of the time she wept against his shoulder when her heart was first broken. There was happiness even in that sort of misfortune.

As he pulled away from his embrace with Sansa, he found that he was now a child, wide eyed and afraid as he clung to the warmth that his parents’ bodies offered him. His mother smiled at him and pressed a kiss to his forehead, her hand moving to caress his tearstained cheeks. He reached out to his father, revelling in the strength that the man’s arms offered as he was lifted into the air and swung about, the good-natured laughter of his parents a melody that he had yearned to hear for so long. They smelled of pine and books and winter, they smelled of love and comfort: they smelled of _home_. 

But it seemed Death could only grant him a glimpse of that which would never be his. 

The reality of it was that Bran was a cripple; he along with Arya, Rickon, and a thousand other children had been evacuated to the country side, their whereabouts completely unknown to their respective families. He would be a grown man by today, old enough to enlist in the Army if not for his legs. Arya would be a year younger than he was when he conscripted to fight for his country. Was she still the stubborn mule of a girl who refused to cry when they bid him and Jon goodbye at the train station? Has Rickon been broken by the war like the children his travels had brought him upon? 

How he prayed for his mother’s and Sansa’s safety, for their smiles to be vibrant with the warmth that ran through their hair and their eyes even more so. Last he had heard, Sansa had been dispatched to Italy; in his mind he could still see the tearstained letter his mother had written him when she first heard of Sansa’s insistence on joining the Red Cross. So he prayed harder, hoping his mother would find comfort in knowing that Jon was fighting at the Front in Italy, that Jon would keep her safe if anything were to happen—their brother in all but blood. 

When the young man awoke, it was not an angel that looked upon him, but a girl with hair as fair as cornsilk. Robb should have thought that she had an unremarkable face, and so he blamed his blood loss for making him think that she was quite the opposite, even for a German. There was something familiar about her that made him very uneasy, the discomfort that twisted inside him mixed with his wariness for the stranger. She was kneeling by his side, shushing his incoherent rambling as she wiped his brow with a wet cloth. Her eyes were green, and he was filled with sorrow when he realised that his time in paradise had been a dream. Although to his confusion, he was reminded of a song thathe used to play on the piano for Sansa.

“ _Warum hilfst du mir_?” he asked, his voice so weak that he could barely hear it as he spoke.

He hissed when the cloth pressed against the bruise on the right side of his jaw, causing the girl to recoil slightly, a flash of fear on her face. She made no reply, but instead reluctantly resumed her assault. It reminded Robb of when his mother was too angry to speak to him for injuring himself when he wrestled with Jon, she would tend to his cuts and bruises in silence to guilt him into apologising for the trouble. This was different though; there was no anger in the Aryan’s eyes when she wiped the blood and grime from his face, and she was most certainly not his mother. 

The pressure of the wet cloth on his face disappeared, lowering to his neck where cold sweat collected by the collar of his shirt, “Y-You have to sew the cuts.” 

Her eyes met his at once, wide and uncertain when his fingers made to undo the buttons. He repeated his words in her language, though by the reaction he had gaged from her, it seemed that he did not need to.

Weak still, his hands slumped to the ground, fingers caked with dried blood. Her nose twitched when they hovered over the buttons, Robb let out an exhausted chuckle at the thought that she was probably deterred by his stench. She had dainty hands, hands that told him that she had probably never worked a day in her life; it reminded him much of Sansa. They shook when she began to unbutton his shirt, the warmth of her fingers seeped into his chilled skin when they accidentally pressed against his chest. He brought his attention to the room that they were in, taking note of the wooden beams and walls that surrounded them. 

Hay was strewn all over the floor he lay on, the ceiling decorated with cobwebs and the dank scent in the air indicative of the shack’s lack of use. It was much too large to be a shack though, and by the presence of empty stalls it was quite clearly a stable. Robb had no way of remembering how exactly he had found the site, but he was certain that he would have died had he not. The girl looked out of place, her hair neatly done in an updo and her clothes a utilitarian style that was true to her kind. 

“Wissen Sie, wie zu nähen?”

She nodded hesitantly, pink lips pressed into a thin line when she pulled a kit from behind her, digging her hand into the bag in search of a needle and thread. Robb bit back another hiss when she cleaned around the cut at his side with alcohol and steeled himself for the bite of the needle, instantly aware that he would have to withstand pain without anaesthetics or liquor to dull his sense. Her eyes met his again, tears pooled at the corners where her lashes were thickest, “I-I am n-not sure.” she choked out.

So she could speak his language, and by the English lilt it was likely she could speak it fluently. Robb retrained himself from groaning and asking her to leave him to bleed out, more than aware that before him was a German who should have viewed him as nothing but a stranger who wore the uniform of her enemy—and chose to clean him and tend to his wounds nonetheless. 

He took her quivering hand at once, aware that his blood and dirt would leave a mark on her porcelain skin, “Please.”

The shaking stopped, her fingers so still that he briefly thought she had decided to give up all together. The girl handed him a thick cloth, “Für ihren Mund.” she said, gesturing to his lips to silence potential screams. 

Robb shook his head, taking deep breaths to ready himself for the sting, “Do it.” 

It was the fourth time the needle pierced into his flesh that nearly had him scream out the expletives that he had been muttering under his breath, pulling at the opposite sides of his laceration until the skin met in an angry crooked line where blood leaked through. The words she said to him in her language were like wind, drowned out by the pounding in his head and throbbing all over his body. The cut on his thigh was easier to withstand, though he had resigned himself to keeping his eyes shut to steady his breathing. 

By the time she completed sewing his wounds and wrapping them in gauze, he had studied her features so thoroughly that he was almost certain that he knew her. Her face was pale from what he perceived to be anxiety, hands now tinged red with his blood. 

“I will come back. You are running a fever.” her voice was soft, nearly ten times more melodic in English than it was in her native tongue.

Before he was left alone once again, he finally allowed himself to pursue what had been bothering him since he first woke up to see her, “Wie heissen Sie?” 

She turned to meet his heavy-lidded gaze, her green eyes flickered with hesitance as she gathered the bloody cloths and wiped her hands with them, “Myrcella.” It struck a chord in his memory, and he was thrust back to a time when Bran could still walk and his father was not dead, the young woman that was keeping him alive had been a mere wisp of girl. 

A part of him wanted to say more, but he was quickly at a loss for words save for the ones that rolled off his numbed tongue, “Ich heisse Robb. Haben Sie Ihr Skizzenbuch gefunden?” 

The corners of her lips twitched ever so slightly, but it was lost before it could be mistaken as a smile. The German girl shook her head and left him to wait for her in silence until he fell back into a—thankfully—dreamless sleep.

 

ooo

 

Her hands would not stop twitching. They clenched together and pulled at the other’s fingers, wringing at the reddened skin that had become irritated from the abuse. Unlike her English patient, Myrcella Baratheon was not so lucky in succumbing to her exhaustion. She remained wide awake well past her standard bedtime; her troubled thoughts constantly circled back to him, unable to ease the anxiety that wracked her brain at the possibility that she would be caught for her actions. 

They would kill her if they discovered her secret, and not even her Opa with his close relation to the Führer would be able to save her from the death sentence, though she seriously doubted he would feel so inclined as to attempt such.

Everything was wrong, the world she lived in was wrong and the Führer was wrong. While her sentiments were not voiced out loud, Myrcella liked to think that in her dreams the world was safe; the Führer did not hate the Jews and there was no war that cost millions of lives. It was sad to think of the past, when her dreams were still a reality and Tommen was safely by her side. The English soldier was in that past too, though she admittedly remembered little about him. But she remembered how infatuated she had been with him at that time, when her father was still alive and she was merely eight years of age, blushing furiously when the older boy politely told her that she was pretty. He did not remember her now, and she hoped that it would remain that way.

The Aryan part of her feared the man immensely, threatened by what he would do when he finally healed and anxious to know his intentions for being in Germany. The answer was quite clear of course, the presence of any un-captured troop of the Führer’s enemies meant death to their beloved country. Myrcella should have turned in the soldier—Robb—while she still had the chance.

But the other part of her, the part that had fooled herself into believing that she was sired by Robert Baratheon, wanted so desperately for him to live. She was not full German after all, at least that was what her birth certificate claimed. Did that not mean that her blood could call out for the victory of her other half? It sang to her through the pulsing in her veins, _keep him safe_ , the tune in her head eerie and strangely calming. 

Robb Stark, as she had read his name on the identity disk that hung from his neck, was still as handsome as her vague memories led her to believe. He had been shorter back then, not nearly as strongly built as he currently was, with his jawline and cheekbones much softer as compared to now. It almost hurt to look at him, although it was not because of how attractive she found him to be. His vivid blue eyes were weary, as if she might see all the men that he had watched die should she risk gazing into them any longer.

She could still feel his faded scars beneath her fingertips, aware that it would not be the last time she would touch them, not when she had become the self-appointed nurse to the man.

Two days had passed since she found him unconscious in the abandoned stables of her Opa’s property, his side profusely bleeding through his shirt and skin so pale that he might as well have been dead at that point in time. Myrcella still did not know how he had managed to climb over the brick walls in the state he had been in, but she was relieved when the blood was washed away by the storm that came not long after she first tended to Robb Stark. She had run back to the stables to see if he was still alive, worried that his fever had worsened within the hour that she spent waiting indoors for the rain to subside.

How unexpected life could be. She went in search for the sketchbook that her older brother stole from her room and wound up finding a man who had once been little more than a distant memory instead. Robb Stark had a guardian angel who must have been working exceedingly hard to keep him alive, or else he would not have sought shelter in the stables and she would not have been the one to stumble upon him. No one ever went to the stables, it was once the sanctuary of her Oma, who had passed away when her now distant uncle was born. Myrcella squeezed her eyes shut and chewed on her lower lip until it ached, it was ironic how the granddaughter of the _General-Feldmaschall_ was hiding a British soldier in his very home, though he had not set foot in it for years since the exposition of the Führer’s plans for Europe. But her mother lived with her, as did Joffrey and Tommen when they would return for a week every so often, and she did not expect them to share the same opinions as her.

If she played her cards right, she would be able to keep him safe from hostile eyes for as long as he needed. Though they had not really spoken since she stitched him up, she had a feeling that her sickly guest had no intention of remaining within the borders of her country for longer than necessary, and she intended to do what she could to make sure his injuries were healed by the time he was prepared to leave. She wondered if he was aware of her link to her Opa, having taken notice of the recognition that flashed in his tired eyes when she told him her name, but his current state ofsilence told her otherwise. 

What little sleep she managed to acquire was soon interrupted by the sound of her mother’s angered voice hissing in her ear. Myrcella sat up slowly, unable to make sense of the words that escaped from the mouth of the woman she resembled so much.

“Up! Get up! Answer the door before your brother wakes in a foul mood!”

With the war taking more and more of their men from home, the women were left to take on their work, which was admittedly more financially rewarding than acting as a maid to a neglectful household. Such was the case of the servants of their family, who vacated their quarters and opted to come to the estate every so often to help clean and do laundry for extra money. This left the only daughter of Cersei Lannister to act as their replacement, cooking three meals a day and occasionally doing the laundry when none of their old maids could visit and do it for them. It did not bother Myrcella as much as it would have bothered her mother to work, but doing the chores herself was getting more difficult since Joffrey’s return from Dachau a week ago, as he took pleasure in making demands of her like a common servant. 

“It is the Volkssturm, inquire about Tommen and turn them away.”

Myrcella pushed herself out of bed in resignation, wrapping her robe around her body before hastily making her way out of her room to obey her mother’s instructions. The incessant rapping on the hardwood door grew louder as she approached the foyer, echoing along the empty halls of their lonely home. It was only when her hand made contact with the locks of door that she suddenly found herself fearful of the reason behind the men’s late night visit. Without another second of hesitation, she removed the bolts and took a deep breath, hopeful that it would be one of Tommen’s friends who greeted her from the other side of the doorway. 

Standing before her instead had been a boy with a dour expression and a height so tall that he could have tilted his head just a little in order to touch the arch of the doorway. By the manner in which he leered at her, it seemed that he would more likely be a friend to Joffrey rather than one to her beloved little brother.

“Good morning, is Frau Cersei here?” he inquired. His voice was still high pitched as opposed to Tommen’s; it was likely that he was no more than fifteen years old. Myrcella’s heart sank a bit, wishing the boy had been tucked in bed at home with his family instead of doing work in the middle of the night. What innocence that should have dwelled behind his eyes was invisible to her own.

She forced herself to conjure a smile to warm their exchange, though it did nothing to soften the child’s hard expression, “Yes, she is asleep. I am her daughter. Is there something that I can help you with?” 

There was a pause of silence, her heart hammered so fast against her chest that it could have leapt out of her mouth and fallen to the cold ground right then and there. Never had she felt so afraid a child. He turned around, granting her a view of the other adolescent boys that stood by the gate of their home, they stood tall like their fathers would have, the air around them dark and imposing when it should have been carefree and happy. 

“A security check ma’m, it appears that someone has trespassed our bound—” his words were cut short upon realising that he probably should not have spoken at all, the air around them as still as they stood.

Myrcella did her best to school her expressions, well aware of their intentions. It would not do to show them she was afraid. What would a Lannister have to fear from the Volkssturm when the young boys and men that were enlisted could be as good as personal guards to them if they wished such? 

“I understand, however I must urge you to come at a more appropriate time.” her reply hardened by the slightest tilt of her chin and straightened posture. 

Her mother always told her that women could command respect too if they applied themselves properly. So Myrcella did her best to carry herself in the same way that a well-bred Aryan woman would, though she did not reflect the condescending tone that Cersei Lannister was so quick to use on others. 

The boy shook his head, his eyes twitching to the side as if to catch a glimpse of his companions that waited behind him, “I am afraid not. We have seen the the safety of all other houses in the vicinity but yours, protocol demands that you allow us to entry.”

His voice was soon a whisper in the night wind, the young woman’s mind hurtled to the foreseeable future wherein her British guest was found huddled in the corners of her Oma’s stable. She could already feel the cold metal touch of handcuffs around her wrist, the harsh feeling of flesh against flesh when her mother slaps her out of disgrace. It would be nothing compared to the torture that was likely to be inflicted on her when she and Robb Stark will be taken away. Her knees shook with fear, immune to her efforts of appearing unaffected. 

“If that is all, allow us to pass ma’m.” 

Fifteen and already as commanding as an experienced man of war. Myrcella’s lips trembled when she tried to speak, interrupted by the boy’s pressing forward to enter their home. A figure emerged from behind her, opening the door wide open to reveal her mother in all her hostility.

“What is the meaning of this?” 

Even the boys that waited by the gate had the sense to flinch at the sound of the woman of the house’s voice. Though she had to crane her neck to challenge the boy’s gaze, Cersei Lannister had a hard stare that reduced him to just that—a mere boy. He stumbled half a step back, unprepared for the imposing way in which the woman carried herself despite the fact that she wore no makeup and her hair had been in a tousled bun, no doubt her beauty was just as unsettling as her harshness.

“I-We are here to conduct a search Frau Cersei, we have been given strict orders to see to it that your household is well.” his words came out with a subtle stutter, Myrcella mentally commended him for managing to keep his eyes trained on her mother’s face.

“Yes well you can see that we were quite well before you imbecilic children came pounding on our doorstep. If we have need of you then we will make contact. I have no care for your protocols so long as you do not disturb the peace in the home of Tywin Lannister.” she was so vicious she might as well have torn the boy’s head off.

“M—”

“Leave.” 

She shut the door instantly, redoing the bolts as she muttered under her breath and cast a sideway glare at the girl who resembled her in every way yet none at all, “I am sorry mamma.” she whispered, lowering her eyes to the ground in shame. It was always better to apologise when her mother was cross.

Cersei Lannister’s green glower softened almost at once, followed by the loss of her scowl and the touch of her slender fingers to her daughter’s pale face, “You will learn in time, sweetling.”

It was the quiet moments with her mother that Myrcella cherished the most, when the older woman was not busy worrying about Joffrey and his duties far from home or locked up in her room drinking whatever wine she found in the cellar. She walked behind her mother when they made their way back up the staircases to return to their bedrooms, careful not to hover too close in case she tripped, having become well acquainted with the experience after all these years. 

Cersei accompanied her second child back to her room, a grown woman now in the way her robe and nightdress clung to her lithe frame. Rarely did she ever tuck Myrcella in bed now, but the fear that would not leave her wide green eyes had struck a chord in her hardened heart. Whether fully grown or not, Cersei birthed the girl and raised her. 

She pressed a kiss to her daughter’s golden head, taking notice of the way her fingers twitched over the covers of her comforter. No, her daughter was nothing like her. Myrcella was sweet and good and so very fragile, but she would become a lion eventually, Cersei only hoped it would not be at the expense of the her happiness. 

“Sleep now my sweet.”

Although the lids of her eyes obeyed, the tingles that ran through her body kept her up even after her mother left the bedroom. 

A tear slipped onto her cheek and ran down until it fell onto the soft fabric of her pillow. They had been so close to entering her Opa’s home and finding Robb Stark hidden inside. Myrcella bit back the sob that threatened to escape from her mouth, burying her face onto the mattress to muffle her hurried breaths. She would have to move the Englishman to a safer hiding place, which would not be so difficult given that she was more knowledgeable of the manor’s hidden nooks than any of those who currently resided in the home. He would be hidden here, where she could tend to him and be assured that no one could find him. Getting the man quickly past the staircases unseen would prove to be a much more difficult task, for it seemed that her family was too content to stay within Casterly to leave. She would have to wait until her mother and Joffrey were asleep to take him inside, if only she could be guaranteed that he was strong enough to walk again.

Myrcella fell asleep before she could make any more plans, and while her mind was still troubled by anticipation of what lay ahead, it was the thought of bright blue eyes and auburn hair that eased the pain in her chest and brought a semblance of comfort to the German girl. 

**Author's Note:**

> I've done some research on WWII but please be aware that I've taken liberties in terms of historical accuracy, so please bear with me. 
> 
> *translations (please forgive me, I don't speak German so I was heavily reliant on online translators):  
> Es ist nicht lustig, Joffrey! Wo ist mein Skizzenbuch: It's not funny, Joffrey! Where is my sketchbook?  
> Warum hilfst du mir: Why do you help me?  
> Wissen Sie, wie zu nähen: Do you know how to sew?  
> Für ihren Mund: For your mouth  
> Wie heissen Sie: What's your name?  
> Ich heisse Robb. Haben Sie Ihr Skizzenbuch gefunden: I'm called Robb. Have you found your sketchbook?
> 
> *other notes  
> \- This fic follows the ages of the characters in the asoiaf novels, meaning Myrcella and Robb have a 7 year age gap. It's mentioned that Bran is old enough to enlist for the war (18 years old), meaning that Myrcella is 18 as well (they're the same age) while Robb is 25 years old.  
> \- The Volkssturm was basically the German militia that watched over Germany while everyone else was off fighting in different countries. This was mostly composed of teenage boys who weren't old enough to join the war and men who were too old to join as well.


End file.
